


Care

by decrescendo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Sick Harry, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decrescendo/pseuds/decrescendo
Summary: Harry wakes up ill in the middle of the night. Ron takes care of him.





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally just self-indulgent hurt/comfort with my favorite boys. 
> 
> Technically it doesn't contradict anything in canon. The only reason I didn't add it to my Missing Scenes series is it's not really based on any situation that does happen in canon.

Harry lay awake, unsure precisely what had woken him. The dormitory around him was quiet and still; with the other Gryffindors gone for the holidays, the only sound was Ron’s gentle snoring. He was too used to that for it to have interrupted his sleep.

He felt a bit funny, though, he realized as he lay there. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There wasn’t any pain in his scar or elsewhere. Maybe he felt a bit fuzzy. No, not fuzzy, precisely. Distorted. It was almost as if everything around him was too big or too small by just a few centimeters, as if some noises had been sped up and others slowed down, not enough to be quite noticeable but just enough that things felt distinctly and disconcertingly off.

He turned over – even the movement felt strange, as if he were not really the one doing it – and beat at his pillow, willing himself to ignore it. Eventually, his mind focused firmly on the familiar sound of Ron’s snores, he fell asleep.

-

When he woke again it was distinctly worse. Even without moving he felt dizzy and shaky and though his stomach didn’t hurt, exactly, it was extremely uncomfortable. He was sweating. It was still dark but less heavily so, and he could tell that it must be getting close to morning.

The discomfort was rising through his abdomen and into his chest and he realized quite suddenly that he was going to be sick.

His head spun as he sat and maneuvered clumsily out of bed, but he managed to make it to the bathroom. Not bothering to lock the stall door, he fell to his knees in front of the toilet and waited, panting slightly, gripping the edges of the seat in nervous anticipation.

It felt like ages, the waiting. His knees were beginning to ache and he was cold all over, shivering violently despite still being sticky with sweat, and he wanted nothing more than to be in bed again, and to close his eyes and sleep. But just as he decided it had been a false alarm, the nausea surged in him and he bent lower over the toilet, almost choking as the remains of his dinner came back up. Even when the heaving stopped he did not move except to flush the toilet; it was still there, the cramping in his stomach and the tightness in his throat, and he knew he would be sick again. Breathing as slowly and steadily as he could manage, he counted the seconds. A few minutes passed. Then, just as he had predicted, the nausea returned and he hunched over again, coughing and gasping.

It seemed to go on for hours this time, so long he felt he might collapse from lack of oxygen, until finally there was nothing left to come up and he rested his forehead on the rim of the toilet, too drained to do anything else. He vaguely registered that its coolness felt good against his flushed skin. His eyes stung, whether with tears or exhaustion he could not tell, and he let them slide shut.

He was not aware of falling asleep, but the next thing he knew there was someone touching him, and he had not heard anyone come in. “Harry?”

It was Ron, voice rough from sleep. His hand on Harry’s shoulder. Crowded into the stall behind Harry, and touching him, and Harry was so disgusting and sweaty and had not even flushed the toilet – “G’way,” he mumbled, aware of how slurred his words came out but too tired to care.

The hand left Harry’s shoulder and he could feel Ron back up a few steps, but he did not leave. “I, uh, I heard you throwing up,” said Ron awkwardly. “And I would have left you alone, but then you didn’t come back, and…”

Harry wondered how long he had been out. “M’fine,” he said, mustering enough energy to lift his head. Just as he turned to glare back at Ron, though, he gagged and leaned forward again.

After a few heaves he felt Ron’s hand return, a gentle weight in the middle of his back. It was mostly bile this time, and over quickly. He had not imagined he could be more tired than he’d been already, but now felt his eyes shutting of their own accord even before he had moved his head from over the bowl.

“Here,” said Ron quietly, and then hands where pulling at him, pushing him, and he found himself propped against the wall. He heard Ron flush the toilet. “Hang on just a second, don’t move, I’ll be right back.” Harry almost wanted to laugh. How could he have gone anywhere?

Harry heard running water and then Ron came back into his line of sight with a glass of water and a damp flannel. He crouched in front of Harry, squeezed awkwardly into the tiny stall. “Here.” He pressed the glass into Harry’s hands.

Slowly, hands shaking, Harry took a sip and then leaned toward the toilet again to spit it out. After a few rinses he managed to swallow one. Ron waited, watching silently, until half the water was gone, and then he took the glass back and handed Harry the flannel.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled. The water had made him a little more alert and he registered now that he was embarrassed. It was humiliating, really, to be squeezed into this bathroom stall with Ron, sweaty and smelling of sick and so shaky he could hardly hold his head up.

“Don’t mention it.” Then after a long pause, he added, “You really ought to go to the hospital wing.”

The very thought of all the stairs between Gryffindor tower and the hospital wing made Harry want to cry. He shook his head.

“Okay,” said Ron. “Do you think you can get back to bed?”

Harry considered. “Yeah,” he said eventually. Before he could move, Ron was standing in front of him, holding out a hand. Harry took it gratefully and slowly, with Ron’s help, managed to get himself to his feet.

About halfway out of the bathroom his vision started spinning and he had to grab at Ron to keep upright. Ron put an arm around his waist and pulled him closer so that he was supporting most of Harry’s weight. “You okay?” he whispered.

For a moment Harry felt as if he would be sick again, but it quickly passed. “Yeah.” The dizziness lingered, though, and he shut his eyes against it, trusting that Ron would guide him safely back to bed.

After what felt to him like hours of walking, the grip around his waist shifted, and he heard Ron rearranging his sheets for him before lowering him carefully onto the bed. Only once he was sitting did he open his eyes to see Ron looking concernedly down at him.

“You really do look awful, mate,” he said, his eyebrows scrunched together. “Should I get someone?”

Harry shook his head again. “Jus’ need to sleep,” he mumbled. Then it occurred to him that he might wake up again to be sick. He didn’t think he could make it to the bathroom on time if it happened again. He doubted he could even have stood up again, feeling like this. “What if –”

“I’ll put a bin by your bed,” said Ron. “And…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

The reassurance was all Harry needed in order to let go of his concerns. Distantly, he felt himself nod, and then laid down and down, sleep already pulling at him. Ron would be there, just as he always was.


End file.
